Chapter X: Flight

Margery fluctuated and on her feeblest days the desire to return home became most intense. For her own sake she longed to be back at Red House; for his sake she wanted to be with Jacob. Her emotions towards him eluded her; but when she knew definitely from Auna that his only dream on earth was to see her again beside him, pity woke a faint ghost of the old love. Red House itself drew her, for she felt that if the remainder of her life was to be spent as a sick woman, she could be a more useful one and a happier one in her home than with her parents. Though they assured her daily that their home was hers, and dwelt much on the delight of the villa residence, soon to receive them and Margery, she could win no pleasure from the thought and her weakened mind shrank more and more from the robust opinions of her mother and her father's forced cheerfulness. They were incapable of understanding all that she felt, and now indeed she lacked physical courage to attempt further explanation. In any case she would be opposed. Therefore, with plenty of leisure for thought, she matured her secret plans. They were foolish plans, for though the idea of telling Auna frankly that she longed to come home and leaving the rest to Jacob had more than once tempted her, this obvious course she feared, as being likely to create greater difficulties of ultimate reconciliation with her parents. So she gave neither Auna nor Avis any hint of the action proposed, but arranged with Jeremy, on the understanding that no word concerning his part in the plot should be whispered. That assured, with ill grace he promised to meet her on a night in November, one fortnight before the day now fixed for the wedding.

Thus Margery planned her return home and hoped that the wedding of Avis and Robert Elvin would serve its turn to distract attention and smooth affairs afterwards. In sanguine moments she even trusted time to conciliate her parents. That her father would some day forgive her she knew, and that her mother must logically pardon in the obedience to her own faith, she hoped. For Margery fell back whole-heartedly upon the belief that she was prompted and driven home again at Heaven's command. She found much consolation and support in the belief that Providence willed her return. For her, as for many, faith was only fatality writ in a more comfortable word.

It had been arranged that at three o'clock on a certain morning, Jeremy and his trap should wait near Lydia Bridge, and that his sister should come by the pathway under forest trees, beside the river and join him there.

Margery conserved her strength for this supreme effort and, for two days before it came, lived in a trance. But she was alert enough to take more food than usual and preserve a cheerful attitude. Her only doubt centred in the extent of her physical strength, and now on the eve of her departure, as that winter day closed in under a cold and frosty sky, she wished, too late, that she had asked Jane to meet her close at hand, and pilot her through the night to Jeremy.

She knew that she could safely leave the house, for her parents always slept well and would not be awakened by any sound that she might make.

She sat with them that night until they bade her go to bed. Then her mother ministered to her, read a chapter from the Bible, while Margery drank her glass of hot milk, and so wished her good night and left her. The hour was ten o'clock and she knew that nearly five hours must pass before she would start. A little milk pudding was always left beside her, to eat in the night if she awoke. This she determined to take at two o'clock, before she began to dress. Now the details, that seemed so simple at a distance, began to loom larger and more complicated. There was, after all, so much to do before she could get clear of the house, and the subsequent walk through the wood by the river began to seem a great thing. For she, who had once loved the night, felt nervous of it now. Again and again she wished that she had asked Jane to meet her near the post-office. She even considered the possibility of changing her plans and fixing another night, before which this detail might be arranged. But Jeremy would be at Lydia Bridge by three o'clock, and if she failed him, he could not be counted upon for a second attempt.

Her mind ran forward. She would leave Jeremy at the outer gate of Red House, while she,--about four o'clock, or earlier--would go through the wood and knock at the door. There was a bell, too; but if she could rouse Jacob without wakening any other, that must be best. His room looked over the porch. If she were strong enough, she would throw small stones and waken him.

She pictured him looking out and seeing her. He would certainly know who it was by star-light and hasten to let her in. The peat fire never went out at this season, and he would bring her to it and draw it up. He would not say much. He would be like a man fearful to wake from a dream; but she would speak. He must never know who had brought her home: he would not be jealous about that, Indeed he could not fail to guess. After all it would be very like Jeremy to confess in secret--for the sake of Jacob's applause and possible reward. Her husband would take her up to her room, then, and leave her to go to sleep, while he dressed and began the day. And presently her children would come to see her, while the familiar sounds would be in her ears--the song of the river, the bleating of the goats and the barking of the dogs. Puppies would tumble into her lap again--new puppies that she had never seen; and old dogs she remembered would be there to remember her. She would be very still and rest all day; and then painful things must happen, for Avis, or Peter, must go swiftly in the morning to tell them at Brent and allay their alarm. She started out of this dream, for already she seemed lying in her own bed at home. But she was not there yet. Thinking wearied her. A clock struck midnight.

She was back again in thought at Red House presently. It seemed already hastening to meet her, instead of withdrawing far away under the stars and waiting for her to come to it. Her mind wandered over little homely things and indulged in little homely wonders. How was Jacob's linen? Auna mended for him now. And her own shards and husks--Auna had told her that nothing of them was touched. Jacob never allowed anybody to go near the great wardrobe that he had bought for her when they were married. But her clothes had curiously interested him. She doubted not that he looked at the empty rags sometimes and took care of them. He had always treasured the russet costume in which she was so nearly drowned before their marriage. She concentrated upon Jacob and wondered why he wanted her, and what he would think if he knew that she wanted him. Another hour passed and for a little while she slept, then woke frightened lest she had slept too long.

Elsewhere a scene of unusual vivacity was taking place which bore directly upon Margery's affairs; and while she reflected and dreamed, her parents entered upon a lively argument ere they slumbered. Barlow had taken his lozenge and was about to sleep when his wife addressed him and touched a matter already much in his mind.

"I'm a long way short of comfortable about Margery," she began, and he declared the same uneasiness. That he should echo her doubt interested Judith, but on questioning him she found that his fears were not concerned with her daughter's soul. Her bodily state it was that agitated him.

"Dr. Briggs told me only to-day she was going back rather than forward. She wants a good shake-up in his opinion, and a very serious thing is this: that she's not anxious to get well seemingly. Doctor held that was a grave symptom, She's not set on building up her strength, and she doubts if she'll ever do it, unless something happens to throw her mind out of itself."

"Something will happen soon," said Mrs. Huxam. "There'll be the excitement of changing houses."

"It isn't that sort of excitement, Judy. We're too apt to forget that Margery was always a bit delicate. After the awful shock, and before she'd got over that, she was snatched away from her regular life and thrown into ours, which is quite different in every way. Quite right and necessary, but we can't realise all that meant, or all she had to go through, I expect. We only knew that she'd escaped from the evil to come; but there was another side to her home life which no doubt she's dreadfully missed and which we didn't know. In fact she's confessed it often. And now she's got anæmia, and that's dangerous in itself."

"I'm troubled about something a good bit more dangerous than anæmia," answered Judith. "The dust we're made of only holds together as long as our Maker wants to cage our souls on earth. Then He cracks it and lets the soul out; and that happens at the moment He wills and not a moment sooner. Margery is like a swallow in September--restless, restless. You can see it in her eyes--not resigned and not interested in the villa residence, but thinking far too much of self. The devil's at her, Barlow."

"It's nature--not the devil. And you must put the body first for the minute, because the state of the soul often depends upon it. In a word I'm not at all sure if Lawyer Dawes wasn't right. He told me flat out, that if he could make it happen, he'd get Margery and her husband friends again; and he said that was more likely to improve her health, and save her life even than anything that can overtake her. He's seen a good bit of Jacob Bullstone and he assures me he's a changed man."

"And what did you say? Reproved the vain fool I should hope. 'Save her life!' Doesn't Dawes know that 'He who loses his life for My sake shall save it'? Did you tell him that? Did you remind him that the only life that matters to a Christian is the eternal life?"

"I did not," confessed Barlow, "because, in the case of Lawyer Dawes, that would have been vain conversation. And I may remind you the specialist that Dr. Briggs had down to see Margery from Plymouth said something to the same purpose. He's known for a very clever man indeed, with many good and amazing cures to his credit, and he understands his business be sure. Briggs didn't agree with him I grant, because he hates Bullstone for his crimes, and wouldn't have her go back; but Dr. Nettleship, from Plymouth, did firmly hold that if they could be brought together it might be the turning point for Margery and restore her health and peace. And, what's more, I wouldn't be so very much astonished if Margery herself was agreeable."

Mrs. Huxam sat up wide awake.

"You properly shock me," she answered, "and I'm very sorry that I've heard you utter these loose thoughts. For they show a weakness that I never guessed was so near home. And now you say she's that way inclined herself, and don't that show I'm right--that her spirit is in danger? It's too true that she's in moods sometimes, when she thinks of that man in a very improper manner. I've surprised her in them, and we know Satan finds plenty of evil thought for idle minds. But let it be understood once for all that they are evil and open the way to deadly danger; and never let me hear you say again that it might be well for her to go back to Red House; because if I do, I'll change my lifelong feeling to you, Barlow."

"Don't say nothing you'll repent," begged Barlow, "You've taken this in far too fierce a spirit. We only want to consider all possible plans for making Margery well in body first."

"We have not to consider anything of the sort," answered Judith. "Her body matters not a brass button against her soul; and if, in her bodily weakness, the devil sees an opportunity, then 'tis for us to hinder him, not help him. You're very near as bad as old Marydrew and other people I've heard on the subject. Don't you see what becomes of your daughter's soul, if she goes back to that doomed sinner even in thought? You've astonished me a good bit by your earthy blindness to-night, for I thought you were long past any such weakness. Sometimes my heart sinks when I look at life and see, even among my nearest, such dangers opening under their feet. But you--I certainly did always count that you were safe."

Barlow in his turn was hurt.

"So did I," he said, "and with tolerable sound reason; and it's a source of great pain to me that you can doubt it. You mustn't imagine, Judy, that I'm taking any fatal attitude. I'm very well satisfied that Margery can look after her soul; surely you've taught her how to do that? And I'm also tolerably certain I can look after mine. You mustn't get into the way of thinking you're the only creature on God's earth who be out of danger. I'm talking of our daughter's body for the minute, not her soul, and if the Plymouth doctor says a certain thing--a man of great knowledge too--and you have reason to believe that Margery may have some ideas in the same direction, then I say it's well within reason, and religion also, to turn it over before you turn it down."

"And I say that you lie," answered Mrs. Huxam firmly. "As to reason, I don't know and don't want to know. I hate the word. I know where reason will bring most humans, despite their Saviour's blood poured in a river for them. And I will speak for religion and our child's eternity and only that; and I tell you that any such horror as her going back to her old life would shut the door of Heaven against her for evermore. And that you know as well as I do; and I hope you'll call on God to forgive you for pretending to doubt it. And I hope God will forgive you, else you'll soon be in pretty sad trouble yourself."

Mr. Huxam did not immediately reply, but the adamant conviction with which Judith spoke impressed him. He did indeed suspect that from the standpoint of religion she might be right; but he excused himself.

"A father is a father," he said, "and if natural longing, to see my only daughter strong and happy again, led me to offend--well, you must make allowance for human weakness, Judy."

"A father is a father as you say, Barlow; and a Heavenly Father is a Heavenly Father; and if you're not prepared to say 'Thy will be done' at your time of life, then I can assure you that it's a very hopeless attitude. We want to make Margery's soul sure for God. We want to know that when we're safe through the Vale, our children--the souls we have been allowed to bring on earth--will follow us to our eternal home, or go in front, as in the case of our Thomas. The order of going is God's business, but the road is ours, and having the Light, what shall be said of the human parent that would let a child stray on the wrong road if he could prevent it? You're playing with everlasting fire for your only daughter--that's what you're doing to-night."

"Then we'll go to sleep," said Mr. Huxam. "I quite understand she's in Higher Hands, and I also grant the duty to the soul is higher than the duty to the body. We'll see her together to-morrow, and tackle the subject, and try to find the right road for Margery--where body and soul both will be looked after."

But his wife would not let him go to sleep. She was roused into a very vivid wakefulness and she poured a long and steady flood of dogma into Barlow's weary ears. His answers became fewer and she talked him into unconsciousness at last; but she did not sleep herself; and thus it came about that while Margery was dressing and putting on all the warm clothes that she could wear, her mother, fifteen yards away in the rambling, old house, remained very wide awake, her senses strung to dismay and her soul in arms. She had forgotten Margery and was now in deep trouble concerning Barlow's salvation.

Mrs. Huxam left her bed presently and knelt down to pray. But she found it exceedingly cold and rose and wrapped a dressing-gown about her, before she knelt again. It was then, in the stillness of a moonlit and frosty night, the time being a little after half past two o'clock, that Judith heard the shutting of the outer side door below her. There could be no doubt. The private entrance was closed gently, and it must first have been opened. Barlow slept and the room was dark save for the square of light where a white blind hid the window. She drew on her shoes, put the nearest garment, a flannel petticoat, over her head and left the room. She wasted no time in seeking for Margery, but descended at once, reached the door, found it unlocked, opened it and went into the street. The cold struck her like a blow and she gasped unconsciously. Thirty yards away, a woman moved in the moonlight and Judith knew that it was her daughter. She followed instantly and ran to overtake her. Hearing footsteps, Margery turned and, in a moment, her mother was beside her.

"Thank God!" was all Mrs. Huxam said, while the younger nearly felt, then strove to hurry on.

"Go back, go back, mother!" she implored. "You're wise,--you understand. It must be so. God has brought me to see it. Nought happens but by the will of God."

"Turn--turn and don't take the Name, Margery. Quick--quick! You shall come back. Quick then, for your soul's sake, before the frost strikes you dead in the act of sin. The will of God--yes--His will--to send me to save you--to head you off from death. The will of the devil you'd set out to do--and I've come between by the mercy of our sleepless Father. Come back to me--come back to righteousness, Margery; come back and praise your Maker Who sent a faithful mother to save you."

She used physical force while she talked. Their breath rose in the air; the old woman's high-pitched voice echoed in the silent street; Judith dragged at Margery, while she, numbly conscious of the great cold, found herself not strong enough to shake her mother off. Mrs. Huxam held on and prayed aloud, with a vigour that mastered the wife of Jacob, until Margery felt her will perishing and her limbs refusing to resist. One last effort was made.

"Think before you hale me back," she said. "Oh, mother, think! It's either going home, or dying--I know it."

"'Home!' Where's your home? Don't you understand yet? Have you drunk poison unbeknownst to us? Brace your body to do your soul's work, Margery! There's only one home for the spirits of the just made perfect. Trust your mother, who's wearied your Maker's ear for you ever since you were born. Trust me, I say. Am I nothing? Don't you want Heaven, if only for my sake? Well I know you do. Praise God for His blessings and set your foot firm on the only way. That's right--that's right. Lean on me and praise your Maker. Oh, child--you poor, strayed sheep--did you think to go through this icy night all that way to hell? But you'd have fallen frozen--frozen in your sin--and then the loving Lord's self couldn't have saved you. But you're safe now--safe, safe, Margery. The angels are singing over the sinner that was saved. We should hear 'em if our ears weren't stopped with earth. That's my brave child, with her hand in God's and the powers of darkness routed. Off they go! You can almost see 'em--and the Children of Light guide you home."

She half supported, half dragged Margery back; then she helped her to her room still pouring out a flood of speech. Mrs. Huxam had grown a little hysterical herself. Her daughter fell quite silent, and submitted, like a child, to be undressed. But suddenly a moment of futile passion loosed her lips and she turned on her mother.

"You've brought me back to my death," she said. "Understand that, grasp hold of it. Your work to shorten my poor days and crush out my last hope. I shall never rise again off this bed--never, never!"

As she spoke, Mr. Huxam, who had been awakened, appeared at the doorway in a red dressing-gown and white wool night-cap.

"Praise God, father, praise God--lift your voice to the sleepless Everlasting!" cried Judith. "The Powers of Darkness are shattered and our girl's safe--safe!"

"Never did I doubt it," answered the man, and then he busied himself and begged his wife to come to bed.

But Judith would not leave Margery.

"I sleep with her--with my arms round her--with her head on the breast that gave her life and the heart that has beat for her since she was born. Be off to your chamber, Barlow, and sleep no more, but praise God. All's well--all's well now!"

Huxam, ignorant of what had happened, went his way, and Judith joined her daughter; while under the sinking moon, where winter trees spread their boughs above Lydia Bridge and the great arc of the waterfall flashed with a thousand sparks of white fire, Jeremy Huxam tramped the frosty road, stamped his feet, looked to the covering of his horse, flung his rug over it, and growled words seldom heard from one of the Chosen Few. For an hour he waited and several times paced the footpath by the river beneath, to meet his sister. But she did not come and, heartily glad of it, the man at last set out for home. Under the darkness before dawn, he trotted off, his horse's hoofs ringing noisily upon the frozen lanes.